OUT OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN




I arrived at night so I didn’t catch much of the sights of Scotland, other than a couple of hot looking dudes at the roadside inns I visited on my way from the airport to the abbey. Also, and more importantly, the moon was full, and there was a lunar eclipse.

I woke up especially hungover as I’d been doing some extensive travelling the day before. Found myself in a bed, for a change, instead of a couch. It was a small, white room with a sink, window, chair and desk. The only decoration was a crucifix on the wall. On the desk there was a flyer with the story of St. Catherine in a celtic border. My room didn’t have a number. It was named after St. Catherine. She was some fanatic.

I needed to sleep more to recover from my travels, but since I couldn’t sleep I had a beer and got ready to go to church. They have services all day and since, technically, I’m a Catholic, I have to go to mass and compline every day. I don’t even know what compline is, just that I’m expected to be there.

The men and women are strictly separated. The women gossip about a French lady that goes away with her husband for a while. I didn’t realize it the night I arrived, but the place where the women sleep is a half a mile down the road. That made me late for mass. These monks really know how to make you feel like a sinner. Late for the usual Latin mass, since it was a Sunday, I made it for the one in English.

I was considering the architecture of the abbey while the priest was comparing the foundations of a church with faith. Interesting. I don’t buy into religion, but I do quite enjoy the perfection of architecture.

After that I went to the gift shop to buy some paper, but before I was able to pay the monk in the store suddenly disappeared. I waited for about twenty minutes for him to come back, but he didn’t. I decided to do without the paper and left. I stopped to admire a garden and remembered I left my umbrella at church. I went in and all the monks were there doing their Gregorian chants. I stayed and watched, transfixed.

Then I looked for a secluded spot to smoke some weed. It took me a while to find a place. Every time I thought I found one I’d either hear some ladies coming or come across a monk on the path in contemplation. Finally I found a spot, way out of the way and after taking my time doing some foolishly dangerous things like going through a hole in the wall of a ruin I sat on a rock between four decently sized oak trees and christened the pipe Oliver gave me as a departing gift before just taking in all the nature. Church bells kept ringing and I wondered if I was expected to be there. I was too high to want to be there. I found I was lost in the woods. When I finally made it to the guesthouse it was cold and raining. The door was locked and I couldn’t find an unlocked window either. I waited for a while, but I was freezing. I had to walk all the way back to church, where everyone was. My Sunday’s best was muddy and there were burrs all over me. Leaves were stuck in my hair and I couldn’t get them out. I tried to wipe some of the dirt off of my black suit with a disposable tissue, but the fabric was wet and it just integrated itself with the dirt. The last five minutes of the Latin mass were very nice, made me forget about my physical state. Didn’t last long enough. That first morning in Scotland is fine example of how the rest of the days during my stay went. It’s so beautiful at the abbey. Beautiful is a terrible word to describe it. No word can convey…

My lover, Phil, is a brilliant English history teacher, the best of men. Currently we’re separated by a psychotic episode, on his part. Such a waste of emotion never being able to be with the one you love. So many men would happily settle for one hundredth of what I feel for him. I am trying to move on and share the best of my youth and beauty with someone else. I know I’m lucky to still look like I do at my age, and I know it won’t last forever, but I can’t help it. I love him. Maybe there are smarter, richer, more handsome men, but none have that particular combination of qualities as him. He’s not perfect, especially now, but sometimes, if I have too much to drink, I’ll tell him he’s perfect. I mean it. It’s true. He’s perfect for me.

The whole guesthouse was decorated with religious things. I stashed my weed in the lounge in one of those crosses with a secret compartment for holy water and candles and cack. One day it took all day, from about noon when I got up, until after ten at night to get to it. There’s a service at 12:30 and I knew I’d be alone for the next fifteen minutes, at least, since everyone (all old ladies and monks) else would be at church, so I called up Phil for some phone sex. I love that man. I especially enjoy turning his Dr. Jeckyll into Mr. Hyde. I went into the boiler room and locked the door so no one could walk in on me, but Sext was shorter than usual and when I walked out of there, sweaty, I wasn’t sure if the other ladies came in before or after my noisily ecstatic phone conversation. I’ll have to find a secluded spot in the woods for next time. Then we won’t be limited to phone sex only during church service hours.

Julian, he’s everything a woman wants; intelligent, handsome, kind, witty, but just one more thing, he’s a monk. I work for him here at the abbey, cleaning.
He’ll leave me in the church and say, “Thank you so much, Adrienne. Now I can go work in the garden. Cheers!”

Cheers, indeed. Brits say “cheers” all the time, even when they’re not drinking. I wish I could be working in the garden, with him. That vacuum cleaner is junk. It makes a hard job even harder. It got too hot and quit before I got to finish the choir stalls. Still it's a very cool work environment, this 780 year old church.

This one evening, some of the ladies at the guesthouse were talking about how small the church is. It’s not small when you have to clean it though. They were wondering if the monks talk to each other at all. They asked me about it since they knew I spend all the day with two of them.

“Yeah, they talk.”

“What did they talk about?”

“We talked about travel, history, sociology.”

I could tell one lady was jealous. She seemed to resent the fact that I was just hanging out with them. “They only talked about those things because you were with them.”

I didn’t agree. Those two were doing most of the talking. “They’re no different than a couple of guys at the pub.”

I could tell she was furious about that last comment.

I chuckled, inwardly.

The ladies that started out the conversation found it amusing also, but they didn’t bother to hide it. They just gave each other winks and nods, discreet, but not. Those two were English. The English are so funny.

That night they shared about five bottles of wine with me.

I missed mass the next morning, on account of a hangover. My alarm was set for eight, but I couldn’t even bother to shut it off or put on the snooze. Usually I am late for mass, better to show up late than not at all. That time I entirely missed.

One of the monks was a real old one with little round glasses and a beak-like nose. He walks badly, with a cane he holds between his robe and cape. The image it brings to mind is a white dove with a wounded wing. He’s Father John, and he wants me to confess so I can receive communion. I haven’t confessed in about fifteen years and am not a practising Catholic. Still it’s cool, very cool. The monks file in, their sandaled feet echoing against the ancient stone walls and they do their Gregorian chants, bells ringing, incense burning. Anyway, I don’t mind showing up, but I do mind confession. There are too many things the church considers sins that I think are good and/or healthy. I’m not sorry about them. If I’d say I was then that would make me a liar, and I don’t lie. To ask forgiveness from a God I really don’t think exists for things I really don’t consider wrong is just not right. That would make me a sinner and a liar; and I don’t lie.

If I was late for church I’d wear my Dr. Martens and creep in as silently as possible. When I knew I’d be on time I’d wear my most beautiful and expensive high heels, bought with my hard earned minimum wage as a bookseller. I’m poorer than I’ve ever been in my life. Life is hard. The only reason I’m not a homeless beggar is because I still have about five thousand more to go before all of my credit cards are as burned out as I am. I travel so much I had to let go about three-quarters of my possessions behind, but I still buy nice things when I see a good deal. I dump the cheap things and go out of my way to keep the valuable things.

At first I had to call Phil when I was walking through the woods to get to church in the dark and cold. It’s scary as hell. I’m afraid of the dark. It’s in the middle of Scotland, twenty miles away from any civilization, other than the abbey. One time I was going to be in the church before the monks filed in so I was wearing high heels. I'd hear some rustling in the woods and stop walking then the rustling would stop until I'd start walking and stop again only after I stopped. It was scary as fuck until I finally caught sight of some rabbits with my torch.

There’s this maintenance man, Angus. I got a ride into town with him once. During our conversation I discovered he gets high so I picked up my Dutch stash before we left the abbey. After my shopping we went to his place and I got him high. It was so funny because I have the best weed. I don't know about Scottish weed, but as far as my experience goes, the weed in England isn't even worth smoking. Not unlike their Dutch neighbors, they mix it with tobacco. Disgusting. Us Americans take it straight.
Angus was really, really high and almost paranoid when he told me, “I have to get cleaned up and changed to go to the nunnery.”

“What’s that like? Like the abbey only with all women?”

“Not women, nuns.”

Right.

I behaved no better than Mr. Bean at vespers that night. My nose was running and it was the first time in months I didn’t have a tissue in any of my pockets. I was glad for the first time that my gloves were cotton, instead of fine leather, and they only cost me fifty pence. There’s one blessing in being poverty stricken.

Father John came by in the morning with a message from Father Julian. He wanted me to come and clean the church. I already knew he was expecting me. He told me after Sunday vespers. That’s the last time in the day we get to talk. It’s the second to the last service. The last one is compline and the monks aren’t allowed to talk after that. Since, as of this morning, I’m the only woman amongst sixty-eight monks there’s no one to talk to so I live just like them. I like it.

All this pressure to confess, Father John demands it but it’s my soul that’s at stake. I can’t lie. I cannot say I’m sorry for many of the things he considers sins, the ones he wants to hear about. I’ve often wondered if the priest is jacking off in the confessional when he gets a really good confession, the kind I might give. I'm not sorry about a lot of things. My greatest sin is pride. It gets me in trouble. Overindulgence is a close second to my pride. I don’t remember a lot of the things I’ve done in my youth that I know were really wrong, in my own eyes as well as those of the Church, lying and thievery. Those things happened so long ago it doesn’t even feel like it’s me, as the same person, when I think about it.

Maybe Father thinks, maybe he’s right, that fornication is a sin. I don’t think it’s wrong at all. I cannot say I’m sorry I have and I definitely cannot profess I’ll never do it again. I wouldn’t even say I’d even try to abstain. I don’t even want to.

This one dude at the abbey, Paul, was just as friendly as he is anti-social. He told me he was at the abbey to from some thugs in Glasgow. He liked to be alone a lot. We’d go on a hike and get high, before, after, or during services. I showed him all kinds of cool kick back spots, places where other people left traces of having a fire and drinking a lot of wine.

A lot of the time he’d take this guitar he borrowed from a monk to some remote spot at night. I went out there to listen to him play, light a campfire it it’s really cold. He drank Scotch whiskey and I still drank Dutch beer, even though it’s much more expensive here than it is in Holland. Paul is smart. He drinks that Scotch they make very nearby it’s very cheap, and very good, if you like whiskey.

I took a nice hike with Angus on a sunny day. We stopped to take a rest and smoke some weed. There was a garden there, way up the hill.

“How the fuck does someone have a garden here?”

“That’s Father Julian’s garden.”

“Really?” I surveyed it. “So this is what he’s up to when I’m cleaning the church!” Sometimes he’s even late for services. Must be because he loses track of time here. I do that when I have a garden. “What does he grow?”

“Lavendar.”

Interesting.

At services I can understand Latin no better than Dutch so the words were lost on me. I tried to read along in English sometimes, but then I lost track of where we are in the service. They chant some intense stuff; love of God, fire and brimstone. The abbey is definitely still a medieval house of worship.
Sometimes I just sat in the dark church across from the side of the Lady’s Chapel and listen to the monks chant. I can probably sit at a niche in the wall that opens into the Chapel, but it's being too close to them for me to feel comfortable. I feel like I’m intruding upon a private affair (It is a private chapel.) They fart a lot more in there too.

I can’t listen to that private chant, if I’m high. I feel too guilty to be listening to them, like I’m hearing something I’m not supposed to hear, or it’s something too good for me to experience, and if they knew I heard their secrets they’d have to kill me. That place preys upon guilt.

It got to the point where I never knew what to say to Father Julian anymore. I had a mad crush on him and I think the feeling was mutual, so I usually tried to avoid him. If I’d been drinking and/or smoking all day I couldn’t help it. I was so drawn to him.

On a regular basis, all kinds of guys filed out of the church, not unlike the monks. I can tell they were standing out there waiting to talk to me, but I stayed in there until after they left. I waited to talk to Father Julian.

Once I was on one of my solitary weed smoking/falling in love with nature hikes and found Father Julian hacking into the side of the mountain with a hoe.

He warmly greeted me, as always.

“Were you brought up Catholic, Father?”

He laughed. “No. I was born into an Anglican family.”

“They must have been shocked when you decided to become a monk.”

“No.” He went back in his mind to that place in time, smirking. “They could see I always bent in this direction.”

“My mom wanted me to be a nun. She still does.” She thinks I don’t like sex. “When I was little I wanted to be a nun. I wanted to be the Mother Superior.”

He smiled the brightest smile. He was even standing right at the end of a rainbow. Damn, this dude is good.

I was in the Lady’s Chapel, dusting and vacuuming, again. I was cleaning hundreds of years of stone dust out. Whenever priests went in there they make the sign of the cross as they kneel. I must do as much cleaning in two hours what must take Father Julian two weeks to do, judging by the number of times the priests cross themselves and bowed down every two steps they take. They have all these cool, old looking books in niches and stalls. I opened them up to try to read them, but so far they’ve all been in Latin. They have cool pictures though of gory cack like the angels and devils in bloody wars. Anytime I open one of their books up long enough to be in awe, a monk slams the door, loud, and my face turns red and I quickly put the book back. They knew I looked at their books.

I was high as hell and in a good cleaning daze. A young monk was in there practicing on the organ and I found myself humming the hymn right along with him. I stepped on a floor stone that was very much out of place. It made a loud noise and I almost tripped over it and fell when I stepped on it. I took a good look and something was shining from beneath the stone. It was a gold box with all these Celtic symbols all over it. I opened it up and found a gold key on a red silk rope. The handle is a gold dragon’s head. Since I do so much dusting at the abbey, I recognized in my mind the hole that spectacular key fits in.

I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it.

I opened the little door behind a picture of Mary.

There was nothing but a little dark tunnel. I put my hand inside, as far as it would go, and my hands are small. I touched something that was extremely creepy in there and pulled my hand out, fast. Something was attached to my hand, but I didn’t look. I scurried out of the dark room, but what scared me most was still stuck to my hand. By candlelight I could see that it was a dead, shrivelled up hand. I tiptoed out of there so quickly and quietly I forgot my torch. I just needed to get the hell out of there and away from that hand. I then blindly ran and ran until I tripped and fell over something. By then my eyes were adjusted enough to make things out by the starlight. I was in the graveyard full of dead monks and a white figure stood above me, laughing, a monk. It was the abbot. My alarm went off. It was a nightmare. Damn.

Paul and I later found a new sidekick, some dude staying at the guesthouse, Mark. Nice guy, but he can be a real pain in the ass. I get a ride into town with him just so I can get some beers and he wants to take me sightseeing and cack. I try to be nice for as long as I can then I get abrupt and ditch him. He wanted to be a dancer, but his parents wouldn't let him. He's some kind of IT engineer instead. I can't imagine him as a dancer, he's extremely awkward as a person and I don't think he quite has the look. He makes it difficult for me, and Paul, to get high.

Paul said, "That bloke really needs to smoke it."

I agreed.

We also agreed that he's not the type that
would though.

He was really clingy and argumentative. He argued with me one night about the history of the abbey, which I well know since Father Julian told me.

One night I was showing them around the church. I told them, “That Wolf of Badenoch got excommunicated by the bishop. At that time Elgin was the capitol of Scotland.”

“Nay ‘twasn’t.”

“Yes it was. Father Julian told me.”

He didn’t respond to that one.

“Anyway, he was mad at the bishop for excommunicating him so he destroyed all of his realm, and this is one of the churches he sacked.”

“This isn’t one of them.”

“Yes it is. In some spots you can still see the burn marks. I know. I clean the place.”

“But that doesn’t mean that that the Wolf of Badenoch did it.”

“Well it was him.” I walked over to an old plaque on the wall and pointed it out to him. “Is that enough proof for you now?”

His eyes got all wide and he said nothing.

Paul goes, “Ya, he was a realll bastard.” That Scottish brogue.

“I know.” I won’t use any profanity in the church, as respect to the monks. “He was a right prat.”

They didn’t know I was speaking in English English, not American English.

My life at the abbey seemed not unlike some weird Atari game. I guess I was all the company at the guesthouse on the weekends. I spent my days dodging rich Catholic ladies that wanted me to meet their unmarried sons and monks in white robes that wanted me to confess. If I could escape for long enough to get high it’s fifty points, away for a beer is one hundred and a double bonus if I have phone sex with Phil. If I was having a good day I could make over four thousand points, and make it to all seven church services for the pure pleasure of it.

The time came when the monks got impatient with me. They wanted me having communion, and to do that you have confession first. I wound up spending all day with four priests, constantly. I didn’t even get a chance to have tea with the old disabled lady, Rachel, I after mass as I usually did. There were so many things I liked to talk to her about. After mass I had an intellectual/ cannon law/ spirituality/ theological conversation with Father Luke. Interesting. He was a soldier during the Second World War and he was explaining to me about how unhealthy guilt is. One of his colleagues in the war can’t get over the killing he’s done. He’s not sorry because he had to save his life, kill or be killed, so he thinks he’s damned forever and suffers for it, mentally. Father says he had to do it because that’s war, and he was under orders, but he just doesn’t understand, just like me.

Finally we broke each other down. The frustrated Father said, “Just confess what you feel sorry for!”

“Well, one thing I do feel sorry for, I rarely lie, but when I was at the sacrist with Father Julian a little while ago he asked me if I smoke and I lied. I told him no. I don’t smoke cigarettes, but I do smoke marijuana.”

“That? That’s not so bad. When things start getting better for you, you won’t need it so much.”

“No, Father. What’s bad is that I lied to him.”

“You’ll soon be forgiven.”

“I know I’ve lied and stolen more times than I remember, mostly when I was younger. I never steal now, and rarely lie. And that’s all I’m sorry for.”

My sins were absolved and my penance was five Our Fathers and one Glory Be.

I have to stop smoking that demon weed. I was so fucking paranoid on my way to church after my confession. I thought I was supposed to feel better, but I’ve never felt so afraid of God or the Devil or whatever. I was so scared I called my mom in America on my mobile. Money is no object. I hadn’t talked to her in almost a year and she was overjoyed to hear that I was at an abbey with monks and going to have communion tomorrow. She could hear the church bells ringing in the distance and asked what it was.

“That means if you’re not half way up this road by now, you better run your ass to church, fast.”

Then I ran out of minutes so I was out of touch with the outside world. I thought my mom would call back if she was worried. She didn’t.

The day came to pass when Father Julian caught me smoking up in a tree. “What are you smoking up there!?!”

I explained to him, “Did you know Jesus used to smoke this?”

“He did not!”

“Yes he did. The Cardinal of the Church of El Duce gave me this.” Now I was being quite flippant, and hopefully not rude to mention this sacrilegious cult to him. I threw down to him a pamphlet I got in Amsterdam at a Jamacian owned coffee shop.

He checked it out as I climbed out of the tree. I don’t think he bought it, but I got him to try my pipe. I offered it up to him like the body of Christ he gave to me earlier at mass, love opening my mouth for that man. When he responded properly, as if in communion, I put it to his lips. “Now breathe it in.” He obeyed. I can tell this is something he’s done before. I wonder when, and how often he’s smoked weed.

I took a hit and handed the pipe back to him.

Father Julian has a special love of beauty, but now that love had multiplied. He told me, “Ah, now I see what it’s all about.” I understood and smiled into his bright eyes. I know how it feels to be high and surrounded by beauty. The sensation is magnified. He seemed quite happy and content.

I wanted to laugh at him, but I couldn’t. Two important looking priests were walking down the road with the Prior so we abruptly parted ways. Once we were at a distance we started to look back and wave every once in a while, and giggle.

I lent Paul one of my Hunter Thompson books. He likes the same kind of writers that I do.

“Take good care of it. That’s a valuable book and I’m picky about the care of books even if it wasn’t worth much. Never use it as a desk!”

He was overjoyed to have something to read that wasn’t a religious book, but also worried over how to get away with reading it outside of his room.

I told him to just put it inside of a bible or newspaper.

Sometimes it was difficult being around Father Julian. It was too intense. A lot of the time we wouldn’t talk. Once we were in the sacrist and he asked me, “Who do you pray to most?”

“Mary.”

“Then you must especially enjoy cleaning Our Lady’s Chapel.”

“Oh, I do, Father, but it’s not that Mary I pray to most. I pray to Mary Magdaline.” She was a whore that reformed.

There were some new young slackers that came to the abbey didn’t go to church enough. I liked living with the old ladies better because you could always depend they’d be at every service. Then I could get high or have a private conversation with Phil without having to worry about getting caught.

Paul was really worried at times about those mafia type dudes in Glasgow, just because he called one of them a bastard. He told me those guys steal passports from Asian women then force them into prostitution. That’s just plain wrong, entirely different from regular prostitution. It’s rape. Paul’s right. They’re all bastards, worse than bastards actually. And I don’t know what the fuck those guys feel so insulted for, just because he called one of them a bastard. Some real tough guys, in their minds anyway, preying on foreign women and wanting to kill harmless dudes that call them harmless names. What the fuck?

I told Paul that once I was pissed at Phil and called him a prick in an email. Then he was mad at me. I didn’t understand what he was so pissed for. I told him, “Yeah, I called you a prick, and I called you a bastard too. You hurt me and I was pissed. What’s the big deal?”

Men.

Mark found and interrupted our conversation to tell us he first went to stay with some Buddhist monks. From what I hear, the Buddhist monks got nothing on our Benedectines.

I told them, “Fuck the Buddhist monks.”

Paul did laugh and said that the Buddhists did seem kind of rude.

These dudes here are the best. I’ve never felt so whole and at peace in all my thirty-four years as I do here at the abbey. I love these guys here, in the purest form of love. They taught me.

I had a brilliant sense of satisfaction whenever I looked down and saw the carpeting I vacuumed this morning. I was a part of that place, as well as it’s become a big part of me.

There was one day that was quite surreal. I was sitting in the lounge, reading, sitting next to the window when I saw this eccentric looking dude walk right by the house, too close. He was wearing these funny checkered pants (trousers in English) with something that looked like a baseball hat. The hat was checkered to match his pants. He had two black dogs walking close by him and a backpack.

A couple minutes later Sara jumped up and asked me if I heard gunshots. I was lost in my book and wouldn’t have noticed them until she asked. I told her about the funny looking man. She told me he was one of a dying breed, the landed gentry. Then she told me she thought all hunters look like that. Not in America. Most hunters are hillbillies, but some are tough black dudes wearing colors and lots of other types in between.

I stood by the window transfixed at the sight of this marauding party of men in weird, but cool outfits. The sky was filled with pheasants. I don’t know why. They seem more like creatures of land than air. I heard “pop” “pop”… Birds were falling from the sky. It was murder. Life is murder. It hurt me to watch, but I couldn’t help it. Dogs started to respond to whistles blown by their masters and leave dead, or dying, pheasant at their feet. Then I realized the man by the window wasn’t a kid in a uniform on his way to school. The sack on his back was full of dead pheasants.

Later I was wandering around with Paul and we saw a dead bird on the path. It was a sweet looking bird. I don’t know what kind it was. It was black white and orange with a cool looking black pointed beak. It was pretty.

Before it turned really dark I went back to the place where the dead bird lie, with a shovel. I dug a hole and buried it. He must have lived in the tree it was under. The other birds squawked at me, seemingly in an attempt to protect their dead partner in flight. They didn’t seem to understand that I was helping them. I didn’t want to see or smell him rot. I don’t think they’d like it either.

It was a hard day for birds. Not enough of them have been singing since then. They’ve been very quiet now, as if in mourning.

Paul returned my book, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. He loved it. He also said goodbye. He was leaving for Greece the next day. He’d been fantasizing about serenading the Greek ladies at the ancient temples for some time. Now he was going to do it.

We went out to the woods and I got him high. We rarely speak anymore, conditioned by the monks. We got really high and I laughed, hard.

“What ye laffin’ fer?”

“Do you know where that weed came from?”

“Ye already told me, Amsterdam, the best of the best.”

“Yeah, but I smuggled it over in my pussy.”

Paul cracked up. “Aye, it tastes reallly good.” That brogue, I knew I was really going to miss him.

He told me, “Ye wimmen dunno ‘ow good ye got it. Ye get ta cook yer o’n food, eat meat, privacy. Aye gotta eat with the monks. Ye got me paranoid t’other day wit dat smoke. It were ‘orrible.”

I sent him off with a meat-based meal, left over stuffed cabbage with mashed potatoes and endive, sauerkraut and corn. (The monks rarely eat meat. It drives some of the men crazy.)

What I liked most about Paul is he’s a true man friend, he’s never even hinted he’d ever try something sexual with me. I didn’t think there was ever such a thing as a platonic friendship with a man. In the past they’ve always wanted more, just waiting for that weak moment when I need some physical comfort (that never comes). We even had this agreement that he would get one side of the church and I’d get the other. We both need a lot of space and recognize and honor that in each other. It never meant that we didn’t like each other. I doubt I’ll ever see him again so that means I’ll consider him a friend forever. I didn’t want to fuck him; and he’s never even tried.

I took consolation from Paul’s departure the next day with Father Julian. We said nothing after mass. As an unspoken rule we don’t want people to notice how close we are. As usual we parted ways for our morning tea then took two completely different paths to our meeting place. I brought some Edelweiss for us; bread, cheese, strawberries and beer for myself, once he’d leave me. The monks are on a strict diet. We spent long periods of time in silence. Occasionally we’d talk and laugh.

We got high and drunk and lost ourselves.

I don’t know why I did it. I rubbed my bare toes against his inside ankle and gauged his facial expression for a response.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if in prayer. When he opened his eyes again they were fixed on mine in mutual adoration. I knelt in front of him and closed my eyes. I could feel him getting up on his knees facing me. He kept getting closer. I could feel the heat of his hands as his fingers tortuously, slowly met my fingertips. Our hands were interlocked and we squeezed each other’s tightly, so tightly it should have hurt.

Our eyes slowly opened at the same time. His eyes are such a cold blue gray, such a remarkable soul. I turned my eyes to the ground before he turned his to my loose, wild hair, just barely touching it; but I could more than feel him. Then he must have been studying my face as he gently closed my eyes with his fingertips.

I wanted him to kiss me so bad.

He wanted me too.

I kept my eyes closed but I could feel his face right next to mine. Our bodies were almost like magnets. It takes less energy to stick two magnets together than to resist the attraction.

The friction went from terrible to ecstatic when he finally allowed his soft lips to meet mine, lightly. He lingered. I couldn’t help it anymore. I know he’s a priest, but I got caught in the moment. I kissed him passionately and he kissed me back. I could tell he scared himself when he pushed me backwards on the ground and pressed his body against mine.
I knew I was about to have the best fuck, ever.

The churchbell rang. It was time for sext. Damn. He came to his senses and ran off to church.

I don’t know why I had to kiss him? I knew it would never be the same as it was between us again.

I was right.

The next day I found him at church, not discreetly ringing the bells, swinging the ropes like he was something from that French Canadian high-class circus of prats.

I loudly whispered to him, “Calm down.”

He obeyed, but didn’t speak to me again.

After mass I fell under an inquisition team. Instead of cleaning the church, I was silently ushered into a cold, harsh room I never saw before, just one more room I get to go into that most of the public never get to see, especially not women. I found out a priest found my missing notebook, and read it. They sat me down and passed my notes around, very seriously. One monk chuckled at something I wrote, but the basic tone of this meeting was quite severe.
Not only am I unrepentant, but I’m even proud of some of my sins, or exploits. I guess that’s apparent in my writing. A punishable offence.

The guestmaster punished me by sending me away for two days.

I hated it.

I stayed in the nearest city in a guesthouse and just stayed in bed drinking beer, sleeping and watching TV. I became a big fan of the Rockford Files.

Before my weekend of exile was over I sneaked back to the abbey a couple hours early. I just went to Sunday mass. Julian was up there sternly reading about the fire and brimstone that’s in store for sinners. Usually he reads nice, poetic things. He seemed disturbed. I wonder what it means. The biblical scene he did manage to conjure up to me was of god throwing the devil out of heaven and sending him down to earth so hard his new, physical body roughly landed down below earth. His halo bounced off and disappeared forever.

I was back in the guesthouse alone, or thought I was. Father Abbot too. We were startled to find each other unexpectedly.

He told me, “Adrienne, I didn’t know you were back so soon.”

“Now I know how Satan felt when he was thrown out of heaven.”

He gave me a funny look. He saw a pack of rolling papers. “Are these yours?”

They weren’t mine. I was pissed to see evidence of someone smoking in there. I never did, or would. It’s fucking rude to smoke indoors, “No, Father Abbot, I don’t smoke cigarettes.”

“Then I’ll give these to the vagrants.” He put them into his pocket.

I wondered if he smokes. Fuck! I wonder if he wondered if I smoke. Hopefully not. They weren’t mine and I don’t smoke cigarettes, and I never smoke inside.

I was next abruptly told by Father Abbot that Father Julian confessed that he almost fornicated with me. He was locked in seclusion, in his cell, away from his garden. I was dismissed. The sooner I was to leave the better. Then Julian could come back out of his room, as soon as I was gone. I would have liked to leave the abbey with at least a plan in mind, but I didn’t want Julian to wait that long. I couldn’t keep Father in his cell. He loves the outdoors. I had to leave the abbey again.

Father Abbot told me, “Consider the abbey to be your Garden of Eden. You were our Eve. I think we’ve taught you enough here to understand.”
He’s right when it comes to understanding, but wrong in comparing me to Eve. I know the difference between right and wrong. She didn’t have that advantage. I love their world of perfection. I love all the monks, innocently, graciously, perfectly. I know I might have crossed a line, or came close to it. I didn’t set out to tempt Julian. I only want him to be happy. I would never want to ruin their Garden. I give them peace, as they’ve given to me. Father Abbot was wrong. I’m no Eve.
I had to get the fuck out of Amsterdam. I don’t know if the Dutch are just really laid back or totally insane. They’re surprisingly fluent in English, but it’s not the same as if English is your first language. Two months was enough. In the beginning I wanted to be in Holland specifically because I didn’t want to understand anyone. At the end of my stay I found myself eavesdropping on English conversation. I didn’t care if they were Australian, Canadian or Irish. There’s something about the way your first language forms the way you think. I made up my mind during a fun night on the town. My first instinct is always to go back to England, land of the English, but I’ve already been there, many times. This time I decided to go to Scotland, land of the Scots, just because I’ve never been there before. I needed to be with people that regularly speak English. (Many people explained to me that they don’t really speak English in Scotland. They speak English far better than the Dutch; and after being in Holland anything is understandable.) I needed to go somewhere just to be alone for a while. I needed serenity. I went to stay at an abbey with Benedictine monks. That seemed to be right up my alley considering my ill peace of mind.

My beloved party partner, Oliver, sent me off with a cargo of weed to set me off quite right, with plenty of the best and lots to share; several grams of his own homegrown named after me, Adrienne, and a couple grams of sinsemilla with seeds.